


A Single Redeeming Vice

by Woldy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Butch/Femme, F/F, Hotels, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poppy has always believed that everyone needs one vice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Redeeming Vice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kellychambliss](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kellychambliss).



> Written for kellychambliss for Kinky Kristmas 2013, using the kinks "smoking & butch-femme dynamic." These are some of my very favorite prompts and pairings, so it was a delight to combine them. Many thanks to the lovely [](http://lokifan.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://lokifan.dreamwidth.org/)**lokifan**  for betaing.

Poppy has always believed that everyone needs one vice. It's a contentious thing for a School Nurse to say nowadays, what with the Ministry issuing decrees about the quantity of fresh vegetables in school meals and St Mungo's sending out leaflets about preventative healthcare, but there it is. One vice, even a minor one, keeps you sane. There's less good sense around than there used to be, in Poppy's opinion, and a dash of vice would help people keep things in perspective.

After two decades at Hogwarts, Poppy knows the vices of all the staff and many of the students. Albus has his sock collection and irritating twinkly-eyed secrecy, Hagrid has his pets, Severus has his sneer, Filius has an almost unnatural love for cherry syrup, and even the paragon Minerva consumes industrial quantities of ginger newts. Show Poppy a witch or wizard without a vice and she'll show you either a liar, or a maniac.

Of course, she's not claiming that all vices are created equal. After ministering to the physical and psychological ailments of thousands of children, nobody could waive away an alcoholic mother or an abusive father. There's no excuse for hurting someone else. No, Poppy is just talking about a little adult self-indulgence. That's the operative word, though - little. It's those rare treats, the occasional foray into _it really isn't good for me_ and _how could I resist_ that make a difficult life bearable.

With a sigh, Poppy glances out of the window, where children are throwing snowballs at each other and skidding around in a manner that augurs broken bones before the day is out. One week. Just one more week until the Christmas holiday and then... Well, then it's time to indulge her annual vice. She's earned it.

* * * * * 

"What do you think?"

In front of the mirror, Poppy eyes herself critically. Her hair is curled and pinned up, her eyes edged with smoky black, lips slicked red.

"December again is it?" her mirror says, dryly. "Give me a twirl."

Poppy turns on the spot. The red dress she's wearing is new, a treat for herself last month, but now she's not quite sure whether it's decent. Surely forty three is too old to have so much of her back and collarbone exposed, and the silk chiffon is whisper thin. As she turns, the skirt flares out and then swishes around her knees.

"Very nice," the mirror pronounces, drawing out the vowels. "Red suits you."

Poppy gives it a nervous smile, smoothing down the fabric over her thighs. It's not too late to switch to something else, something less bright and exposing -

"You're fussing," her mirror interrupts, in a tone that reminds Poppy unpleasantly of her bossiest aunt. "Stop dithering and go."

She checks her reflection one last time, and then reaches for her coat and suitcase. It's nearly eight; if she leaves any later then she'll be late, and she's been waiting far too long for that.

* * * * * 

A Floo journey and two Apparitions later, Poppy steps out onto a quiet, snowy lane. The gravel crunches under her feet as she walks towards the pool of light, and when she pulls open the door the heat engulfs her. A log fire is crackling merrily, and Poppy looks around to see old plaster, exposed beams, and a Medieval arch above. The Muggle woman at reception smiles at her from behind a rectangular black box.

"Good evening. I'm Poppy Pomfrey, checking in."

"Welcome, Ms Pomfrey," the woman says, tapping noisily away at a board while still staring at the box. _It must be one of those putcomer things_ , Poppy thinks. "Your companion has already arrived, and asked me to tell you that she will be in the bar. You're in the stables suite. If you'd like to meet Ms Bones in the bar I'll have your case sent over for you."

"Yes," Poppy says, heart beating faster now, mouth a little dry. "That would be lovely."

The receptionist smiles again, takes the case, and taps a few more buttons. "That's all done. The bar is on your left, just down the stairs."

It's only a few feet to the staircase, but somehow it feels further. Poppy is very aware of the hot air against her cheeks, the silk swishing against her legs, and the knowledge that downstairs Amelia is waiting for her. She navigates the stairs carefully, stomach tight with nerves.

At the bottom she takes a deep breath, turns the corner slowly, and lets her eyes sweep across the room. Small tables are scattered across the stone floor, each bearing a candle. About half the tables are taken, but Poppy sees Amelia at a corner table, her arm draped casually along the back of the chair.

She takes a moment to drink in the sight of Amelia: gleaming silver hair, pressed shirt, fitted waistcoat caressing her curves. Behind the table, she can just glimpse dark trousers and the gleaming tip of a brogue. She lets her gaze travel up again, and meets Amelia's eyes, clear and steady. Poppy's heart skips a beat.

Somehow it takes a lot of concentration to put one high-heeled foot in front of another under Amelia's scrutiny. As Poppy nears the table she unfastens the clasps of her fur coat, and it falls open to reveal the red dress. Amelia stands to greet her, and when Poppy leans in to kiss her cheek she inhales the scent of tobacco smoke.

"You are beautiful," Amelia murmurs, lips brushing her neck, and Poppy tries to stifle a blush. She pulls back, sliding the coat from her shoulders, and drapes it over the chair. Without it she feels exposed and almost naked.

Under this gaze, Poppy feels caught like a butterfly pinned to a board. Amelia's eyes travel down, inch by inch, over the bare skin at her throat, the red silk chiffon over her breasts and belly. Her nipples tighten as Amelia's eyes take in the drape of red fabric around her legs, then down over her bare calves and ankles. When Amelia looks up again, her eyes are dark.

"You get more lovely every year, Poppy."

This time, Poppy can't fight back the blush.

"As do you."

Amelia's lips curve into a slight smile, and she reaches into her waistcoat pocket for a silver cigarette case and lighter. She extracts two cigarettes, passes one to Poppy, and clicks the lighter as Poppy lifts it to her mouth. Poppy sucks in the air, watching the tip flare, and beyond it she sees Amelia's smile widen.

She closes her eyes and draws the smoke deep into her lungs, quashing the inner medic that starts harping on about tar and tissue repair. The curl of smoke across her tongue is simultaneously sexy and soothing, a once-a-year luxury, and it tastes even better for being forbidden.

When Poppy opens her eyes, Amelia is sucking on her own cigarette and sliding the lighter back into her waistcoat. It's an affectation to smoke the Muggle way, using flints and lighter fluid instead of familiar spells, but they both prefer it. For all that Poppy is practical and prosaic at work, she's a romantic at heart. Why else would she meticulously plan their getaway each year, striving to endlessly recreate that moment when their eyes met across a crowded room? Only a romantic would get a thrill every time Amelia lit her cigarette, even after all these years.

"To surviving another year," Amelia says, lifting the cigarette in something like a toast. "How are the little blighters?"

"Exhausting as ever," says Poppy, raising her own. "How is the Wizengamot?"

"Just as infuriating as the day I started," Amelia replies, tilting her head back to blow a smoke-ring into the air above them. "I swear they're even more disobedient than your students."

"Never," Poppy insists, and Amelia smiles at the recognition of an old disagreement.

"Drinking your usual?"

"That would be lovely."

She watches as Amelia leans a little further back in her chair, stretching to catch the waiter's eye, her cigarette dangling from one hand. In the candlelight, Amelia's cufflinks glitter and Poppy can just make out the engraving of the Bones family crest. A moment later the waiter comes over, and Amelia orders their drinks: one gin and tonic, one neat scotch.

"Any more dreadful scandals to hush up?"

"Far too many," Amelia says, taking another drag. "It's getting quite routine. Even if I were allowed to tell you, you'd be bored before I got halfway."

"You forget that I patch up bloody knees and runny noses for a living."

"You forget that I know how many lives you've saved," Amelia ripostes.

Poppy has no ready answer to that, so she takes another long pull on the cigarette, letting the smoke fill every alveoli. When she exhales, it forms a fog around them. There's something pleasantly intimate about that haze; it's proof that they are sharing the same space, trading scents, trading breath.

Quiet as a ghost, the waiter arrives to deliver their drinks, and is gone again with no more sound than the clinking of ice.

"You'll have to teach me how to do that," Poppy says, watching him leave.

"Trade secrets," Amelia says, raising her glass.

Poppy purses her lips, and Amelia quirks an eyebrow in reply, before cracking into a smile a few seconds later.

"There's a class on Stealth and Tracking for the trainees. It's just common sense and a little charmwork."

"You'll have to teach me," Poppy repeats.

"All right, I'll show you next summer. You can pick it up and startle the students."

Poppy lifts her own glass, and takes a drink. The G&T is perfect: crisp and dry, with just a hint of citrus. It's not what she drinks in Hogsmeade, but it's perfect for her meetings with Amelia.

When she's away, Poppy doesn't need to be stern and professional. Here, with no-one to see her except Muggles and Amelia, she can imagine herself back in the 1920s surrounded by flappers dancing with butches in suits and brogues. Or perhaps they're in the 1940s like a scene in _Casablanca_ : Amelia lounging near the piano and calling out song requests to Sam. No, maybe they're more like one of the 1960s spy films that the Muggles love so much. Poppy can just imagine Amelia swaggering into a bar and announcing "Bones, Amelia Bones," before ordering her drink.

"What are you smiling at?" Amelia asks, blowing another smoke ring. The smoke wavers for a moment, and then the ring breaks apart and a faint dragon-like shape sails away.

"Nothing important," Poppy promises, shifting closer. "Tell me about your week."

"Not much to tell," Amelia says briskly, taking a final pull on the cigarette and then stubbing it out. "Busy. The usual politics. Organizing the department's holiday rota takes twice as long as it ought to, and we're not done yet. No doubt Fudge will make his usual Christmas pontifications, promising things he can't deliver, and I'll have to sort it out. You?"

"Oddly peaceful," Poppy says, and inhales again.

She's never been able to smoke the way Amelia does, as if it were a race. Each little cylinder of vice requires it's own mental justification, so she likes to draw out the pleasure. She holds the smoke in her lungs now for a moment, savoring it and making Amelia wait for an explanation. Half the joy is in the anticipation.

"There's been a craze for fanged frisbees," she says, finally. "Terrible for the castle furniture, but I've had nothing worse than a few bites and scratches. Usually by the end of term we're pulling hypothermic students out of the lake, and fixing broken wrists from the ice."

"Ah," Amelia says, swishing her scotch around the glass and then taking a gulp. "I suppose I'll see that in the school's expenses come January."

"No talking about expenses," Poppy says firmly, and Amelia huffs a laugh.

"You're right. Not tonight."

Her cigarette is down to the final inches now, and Poppy tries to concentrate on the taste, the smell, the feel of it in her hand, and the sight of the smoke billowing away. _I should do this more often_ she thinks, and then _no, of course not_. Poppy takes the final lingering drag, and then slowly exhales. As she stubs it out there's a faint pang of guilt.

The waiter appears, deposits two plates at a nearby table, and then glides silently away again. Poppy glances over at the steaming food; it looks good.

"Are you hungry?"

Poppy shrugs, and as she moves the strap of her dress slides lower on her shoulder. Amelia's eyes follow it.

"We could get a menu here, or there's room service." Amelia's face is neutral, as if they were discussing work and not their first moment of privacy since August. This is their fourteenth winter solstice together, and in all those years they have never eaten before seeing the room. There's a first time for everything, but Poppy doesn't think it will be tonight.

"I can wait for dinner," Poppy says, and Amelia's eyes sparkle.

"Just what I was thinking," she says, tossing back the rest of her scotch.

As Poppy stands, Amelia moves swiftly to hold her coat. Poppy's arms slide smoothly into the indirect embrace, and Amelia leans close to press a kiss beneath her ear. Little shivers of pleasure tingle across Poppy's skin.

"Ready?" Amelia asks, sliding a hand across Poppy's lower back, beneath the coat, and Poppy feels the press of each individual fingertip through the sheer fabric. She can't find the breath to reply.

Amelia doesn't wait for an answer, but steers Poppy through the room, a steadying hand on her back as they climb the stairs. At the top, Amelia leads her outside and across an icy courtyard to a low building. For a chilly moment Amelia fumbles with the key, then she glances quickly around and murmurs _"Alohomora"_ and the lock clicks open.

"Cheating," Poppy chides, once they're inside.

"What kind of a partner would I be if I let you get cold?" Amelia says, locking the door.

The sight of her there, brisk and flawless in her crisply pressed shirt and trousers, is enough to make Poppy a little weak at the knees.

"Give me the tour," Poppy requests, and Amelia smiles.

"Well, this is the living room. It's not a real fire, but I can recommend the chaise longue."

"Really?"

"You'd better try it for yourself," Amelia tells her, taking Poppy's coat and then steering her over to the chaise longue. "What do you think?"

"It's good," Poppy agrees, letting herself sink into the cushions.

"Told you," says Amelia, crouching down at Poppy's feet and sliding off her shoes. There's a warm hand against her ankle, and then Amelia lifts her feet up onto the chaise. "And now?"

"Mmmn. Very good."

Amelia's hands are stroking gently over her arch and ankle. Poppy sighs, settling a little deeper on the chaise, and Amelia continues, her hands moving slowly up Poppy's legs. Amelia's touch is warm and intimate; so familiar and so overdue that it nearly aches.

Poppy tips her head back against the cushions, letting her eyes fall closed. Amelia's hands sweep higher, and Poppy feels fingers sliding over the chiffon, across her thighs and then up to her belly. Amelia's hands trail across her ribs and breasts in a slow, erotic survey. Poppy finds herself arching into the touch, pressing her breast up into Amelia's palm.

"I'm sure I shouldn't be so lazy," Poppy murmurs, torn between the indulgence and a niggling sense of obligation.

"Stay right where you are," Amelia orders, in the tone that not a single Auror office dares disobey, and Poppy smiles. _Well, if you insist._

Amelia is playing with her nipple, now, stroking and gently pinching it, and Poppy's concentration spirals in to focus on the sensation. Her nipples are hard and she's getting wet, but Amelia takes her time, lavishing attention on each breast. It's not until Poppy moans that Amelia's hands move away, trailing down to her inner thigh.

A decade ago Poppy would have thrown self control out the window and tackled Amelia. Now, after a long term, a good drink, and the minor sin of a cigarette, being spoiled feels perfect. Poppy arches gently beneath the soft touches, moans as Amelia's fingers slide higher, and can't stop herself squeaking at the first touch across her crotch.

"Good things come to those who wait," Amelia tells her, and Poppy eases her thighs apart as Amelia's hand settles between them.

The touch is still slow, almost maddeningly so. Amelia's fingers trace lacy lines and circles, swiping over her clitoris and then away again. Poppy finds her hips lifting to meet every touch, her breath coming in little puffs. It's almost embarrassing to be this wet and greedy from being touched through two layers of fabric.

As if she can read Poppy's thoughts, Amelia says, "I like the silk, but I'd like you ever more without it. May I?"

"Circe, yes."

Amelia pushes up the hem, and the next moment she's sliding Poppy's knickers down. Then Amelia's hand returns and Poppy shamelessly spreads her legs wider. Amelia presses a kiss to Poppy's stomach as her fingers move faster in maddening little circles, only to retreat every time Poppy nears the edge. Waiting like this is almost more than Poppy can bear, but each time Amelia's fingers play over her clit a little longer as if to say _wait, just wait_.

"You're an awful tease," Poppy pants out, and Amelia smiles.

"It's not teasing if I give you what you want."

Before Poppy has time to reply, Amelia leans in to lick _there_ , tongue swiping over her clit once, twice, before finding a pattern. Poppy can't help herself; she gasps, thighs tense, back arching, and shudders through her most intense orgasm in months.

When she can focus again, Poppy finds Amelia sitting on the floor with an expression like the cat who got the cream. Her waistcoat is still neatly buttoned, but the shirt cuffs are rolled up, cufflinks abandoned on a side table.

"Hungry yet?"

"Not for food," Poppy replies.

Amelia smirks. "Perhaps I should introduce you to the kingsize bed. Or would you prefer the bubble tub?"

"Come here," Poppy says, and when Amelia doesn't move she insists, "Come _here_. I haven't even kissed you yet."

If anything Amelia's smirk deepens, but she shuffles closer and kneels up to Poppy's height. "Happy solstice," Amelia says, and kisses her. It's a good kiss; hot and deep, and tasting unmistakably of sex. It's enough to make Poppy breathless again.

"The bed," she announces between kisses. "Then a cigarette before dinner. Then the bubble tub." Amelia chuckles and pulls her closer.  



End file.
